


Occupational Hazards

by recrudescence



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah's announcement is the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid all at once to get the cringing and crying over with as quickly as possible. Even so, being told, "New plan! Casey is now your cover boyfriend," is the kind of thing that takes a little time to sink in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occupational Hazards

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle prompt: _Chuck/Casey, grunt_. Co-written with Nakeno.

Sarah’s announcement is the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid all at once to get the cringing and crying over with as quickly as possible. Even so, being told, "New plan! Casey is now your cover boyfriend," is the kind of thing that takes a little time to sink in.

And even then, after the metaphorical dust settles, Chuck’s mind is awash in distress signals and fluorescent lights and possibly little emoticons wearing various expressions of terror. “Hang on, _what_?”

The thing is, it’s supposed to be a kind of mercy. Not a _tender_ mercy, but at least a well-intentioned one. Things have gotten so strained with them, between the whole him-being-infatuated-with-Sarah part and the Sarah-being-infatuated-with-her-job-even-though-she-_totally_-kissed-him part, and she’s talking about how it’s prudent to put a little distance between them. Serious-voiced and perfect-haired and totally and utterly _earnest_ as she explains having Casey take over this part of the operation won’t lead to a similar situation.

Which means she’s being kind and not letting him think being with her all the time actually _means_ something outside of work. And that tears at his heart a little—a lot—but the Casey thing is a huge distraction.

Chuck mostly wants to frantically start checking every calendar in the store to see if it's April Fool's Day. Doesn’t matter that it's _September_.

Then it turns out their next assignment is taking place at a gay bar and Chuck is pretty sure he’s ready to cry. Like a _little. girl_. “Whoa. Things are moving way too fast.”

And Casey, shouldering a microwave and brushing past the Nerd Herd table, gives a grunt that sounds a lot like “you’re telling _me._”

Chuck has to do some very fast verbal Band-Aid ripping of his own. Explaining to Ellie that he and Sarah are still on good terms but it just wasn’t meant to be and, yeah, this _is_ kind of coming out of nowhere, and yeah, Casey’s a little older, but he’s a friend and a good guy (Casey must be _wetting_ himself laughing as he’s hearing all this) and they just sort of want to…see where it goes.

Pulling a fake coming-out to Morgan is a little easier, since Morgan has a much quieter reaction. "Dude...oh, God." Looking like a small, fuzzy woodland creature. "If you're happy, I...I don't even know, man."

And then when they actually _are_ going undercover in that swanky nightclub, it’s sort of comforting that Casey’s at least as uncomfortable as he is. Levels the playing field, gives him more confidence.

"_Bartowski_, you _grind_ up against me one more damn time, I swear to Christ..."

"It's my _mooove_, buddy; got to _sell_ it.” Bouncing and wriggling and muttering, “Selling it, selling it!" Casey lets Chuck call him buddy. Seems like that should chafe more than it does.

Not his fault that Casey’d gotten sick of him being so flagrantly tense and out of his element. Took it upon himself to tote him to the bar with a, "This, my little dork friend, is a _white cosmo_\-- if you spill? No stains. Very important stuff." He wonders if Casey’s wishing he were reprising his bartending role tonight. Probably.

The terrorist in the VIP section is easy to find when he has a flash on the guy’s face—and who knew there were gay Belgian terrorists? But there it is: the homosexual agenda. Casey plants him on a barstool again and goes to chat the guy up, which is a part of the plan Chuck is _more_ than happy to leave to him. Of course, seeing scaryhuge Casey being charming and affable is just _weird_. And when Casey comes back over to him, loops an arm around his waist, and leans _riiiight_ on in to whisper in his ear that they’re heading up to his room, the panic starts to rise.

It shouldn’t be. Get him to the room so Casey can get him away from his bodyguards and get him _unconscious_. Steal his computer, get the hell out, hand it over, easy as pie. _Nothing_ to panic about. Until he’s right there, pants loose from a few ruthless motions on Casey’s part, and standing two point five inches away from Casey _kissing_ a _dude_, who then proceeds to undo his _own_ belt.

"Ohgod, Casey? Casey, he'sgettingnaked; CaseyCasey_Casey_!"

"Okay, _now_'s the time to _sell_ it." Casey urging him _around_, too-large hands on his hips. Lips skimming down his spine, then _lower_; lightly, carefully mouthing the back of one pale, shivering thigh. Because, crouched like this, behind Chuck, it's easier for Casey to slip his gun from the small of his back. That’s _all_. Chuck whimpers a little anyway.

This really puts a whole new spin on the issue of his not-exactly _girlfriend_. And how is he supposed to _sell_ it when Casey has his _mouth **there**_?

"Look, when I said that about your jaw line a while back, I didn't...mean...not that you're _un_attractive," because he _is_ attractive in a massively scary _manly_ kind of way, "only I'm not remotely _into_ this kind of thing."

The cool touch of gun metal on Chuck's sensitive bare side before he gets shoved aside completely and Casey straightens up and _he_, on the other hand, is flail-falling over the coffee table now, in his _boxers_. What the _hell_, man?

Casey, while knocking the guy unconscious, still finds the time to give Chuck "you're an idiot" Look #33.

Only, Chuck can still feel that _mouth_ on the back of his thigh. Wetdamp_soft-- moving_... Can feel that mouth _there_, even now with the add of a bruise on his ass. Thankfully, not made by Casey's hand.

Of course, after they've got “their man” knocked out, bound up, Casey turns his head to notice Chuck still standing there in his boxers, red in the face and... tight... in the crotch. "You cannot possibly be serious."

Kind of hard _not_ to notice. Sending one of those slender eyebrows up, up, _up_ a fraction at a time until Chuck has a couch pillow _shoved_ over himself. Feeling _supremely_ uncomfortable.

Arching his neck to one side till it cracks. Businesslike, partly to hide his own amusement—Chuck is dead certain—and partly because it just makes him _squirm_. "Work it out. Hard to run from the bad guys with a third leg holding you back."

"It's _been _a while. And a mouth is a mouth is a mouth-- _stoplookingatme_; and hey, bad guy, all tied up, we should get Sarah and get out of here. Now. Now would be good. After I have pants. Pants, man, are... better. Pants are made of awesome." Babbling. In only that way _Chuck_ can. He wasn't working _anything_ out right. _here_. With _Casey_ in the room. Or any _other_ male, for that matter.

Pants. All he needs now is for Casey to just throw them out the window. "Pants? Damn, guess you're outta luck. Buddy."

He doesn’t _actually_ do that, thank _Buddha_, but Casey very definitely does not make things better by casually going, "You get off on danger, Bartowski? 'Cause that would explain the Sarah thing an awful lot."

"Not funny, man. _Notfunny_." No, he _didn't_ get off on danger. Didn't get off on _men_, either, thankyou_very_muchAgent_Douche_.

He finds the pants, wadded up on the floor right where he left them--or, where Casey left them, since Chuck hadn't been too keen on removing them in the line of duty. "I beg to differ. Get decent." Not bothering to avert his eyes, since it's his job to keep them on the asset at all times.

Swallow, shuffling forward to shyly, sheepishly accept his trousers, pausing after he shakes them out. Glancing upup_up_ slowly to see Casey staring at him expectantly. A small scowl pulling over Chuck's reddened features before he shuffles around to let Casey stare at his back. And his ass. _Dammit_. Shuffle-totter behind the couch, huffing, tossing aside that pillow and wince-grimacing into his pants.

"Could've done a better job at pretending to blend in, y'know," Casey's grumbling, like that isn't the same thing blaring inside his head every damn time Chuck gets schlepped around on a mission.

"I was _trying_..." What with the pushing and wriggling up against Casey, as awkward as _that_ had been, to that really, really gay-ass music. That smell of cologne. Of green. Of crisp-cool-spicy male-_man-ness_ that was his handler. Well, his _other_ handler. His other handler? The pretty girl one? He'd actually _wanted_ to kiss that one. On the mouth, even. And everywhere else, too.

Later, after flushing and nodding and stuttering his way through the debriefing with the general-- thankfully, Casey hadn't uttered a _word_ about what had _actually_ transpired, to neither her nor Sarah, though she'd asked more than once if he were all right, because he hadn't _seemed_ all right-- alone in his bed. Eyes riveted to the ceiling. The ghost of a surprisingly warmdamp_soft_ mouth working up the back of his thigh over and over again.

Only, now? Now, he just can't stop... _picturing_... things. It's worse than the flashes. Because at least the flashes don't leave him uncomfortable in the pants area-- and _why is this even happening_? This shouldn't be happening. Glaring down at his crotch. _Hey, you down there: stop. happening_.

He could touch himself. Could move his hand. Just a bit. Under his blanket. Right here under his comforting comforter and _touch_. Only... only, what if he hadn't checked for _all_ the bugs? Surely they've bugged his room again. Better this time. Harder to find, this time, if he were to look. So, if he _does_... that might mean... _he'd... hear_. And _know_. Oh, God, and what does that say about _him_?

And was it just him, or had Casey been _looking_ at him out of the corner of his eye all night ever since? Through the ride back to the Castle. Through the debriefing. On the car ride home.

Just to make him uncomfortable. Just to make him jittery. Casey was a big, burly _douchebag_. So... there.

Though he could always freak him out right back. Lots of melodramatic moaning and "take me hard" ing.

He could_ totally_ do that. Pull a Meg Ryan. Big time. Only, then, Casey might hurt him... Well, at least, not _kill_ him. Because it’s Casey's job to keep him alive. And Casey is _all_ about the job.

Is it too much to hope maybe Casey _isn't_ listening in on him right now? That he has a hobby other than Being A Spy? It's possible. He had bonsai. He had a girlfriend, at one time. In fact, there are quite a few things that Casey has in common with an actual human.

Chuck with his hands gripping at the top of his blanket, turning his head to peer this way and that before snuggling further down into his mattress. Press his palm to his chest. Slide it down to his stomach. Then slide it right under the elastic band of his underwear, sighing quietly and wriggling about. Comfortable. Quiet. Eyes closed. NotthinkingofCasey. Notthinkingnotthinking_notthink_\--- oookay, maybe better with his eyes _open_. Swallowing audibly. A quiet huff, an even quieter whine with his lip between his teeth.

Talk himself down. Think of something else. Count sheep. Mentally categorize and label more Casey grunts. Sometimes, the life of a spy is not dignified whatsoever.

Musing. There's the “I'd hit you if I felt you were worth the effort” grunt.

And the "I'm making out with the back of your thigh whilst drawing a weapon" grunt. To his shock and dismay, he’d sort of liked that one. And now he’s right back where he started.

Hell with it. He goes for it. Pulling his Meg Ryan, fully equipped with the whimpering whines and the “do me harder”s.

Until Casey smothers him with a goddamn pillow. Or, as it turns out, taps on his window and glares through the blinds.

_That_ has Chuck sitting upright in bed, pointing and hissing, "_Knew it_!" Surveillance _fiends_!

"_Bartowski_."

Is it wrong for that tone to make him pull up his blanket some? He's not stupid enough to go "yeah, say my name again" or something, but the thought is definitely, definitely there. "_Casey_." Only it sounds a little unsteady and a _lot_ less intimidating. He sighs, utterly defeated. "I can't even spend 'me' time _with me."_

Casey just grunts. And Chuck labels that one Grunt #17: the erection-killer.


End file.
